I'm gonna love you (like I'm gonna lose you)
by LaceyBird
Summary: She stares at the stubble that's beginning to darken his jawline as he smooths his hands over her hair, brushing the salty strands away from her face with a strange care, and there's a trail of heat wherever his fingers touch skin. Rated M. Please R&R!


**AN: Okay, so this has been on my computer for a few weeks now, and it's taking up space, so here it goes.**

 **I know a few people were a little disappointed about my last piece _We're not broken (just bent),_ because, yes, he really did just walk away, so hopefully this will make up for that. **

**It's rated M for a reason – be warned!**

 **Set after Sohail dies (I can't remember the episode number!)**

 **It's a first draft, un-beta'd, so all mistakes are my own (and I own them, hah!)**

 **All rights to respective owners, blah blah blah.**

 **Please read and review – they make me happy, and we all love a happy Lacey!**

 **Thank you to everyone for your continued support and enthusiasm when it comes to my writing.**

 **Much love,**

 **Lacey.**

* * *

 **I'm gonna love you (like I'm gonna lose you)**

 _'Tell me the story about how the Sun loved the Moon so much, he died every night just to let her breathe'._

The door to his sleeping quarters is propped open with a large, sandy coloured rock, and against the muted light of the late evening, the soft glow of a small lamp shining from within seems warm, inviting.

In the five hours since losing Sohail, she's felt as if she's been thrown into the middle of the Atlantic Ocean head first, and there's a weight inside of her that's pulling her down into the sinister depths, regardless of her desperate fight to reach the water's surface.

Despite what they all believe, she's not special. She's not Superwoman, or the saviour they're all whispering about, or the superhero that defies all evil. She's just Molly; a simple human that's been incredibly lucky in some pretty awful circumstances.

Being targeted by the bad guys doesn't make her any more bad-ass, any less mortal, than the rest of them.

Sometimes, in the midst of the gun fights and the orphans of terrorists and the misplaced admiration from her comrades, she feels like just letting go and stripping herself bare, proving to them all that she's _just a girl._

If there's one thing she's learned during her time in the 'Stan, though, it's that there's no place for femininity on the battlefield. Ironically, the person who'd originally warned her of that, was the one person she could count on to make her feel like the woman she is under all of the guns and camouflaged fatigues and bullet resistant kevlar vests, the one person that knows how to make her _feel_.

 _Just go to him,_ she thinks, when her body begins to ache and her head begins to pound, and she can't figure out why she was worth dying for.

She stops fighting against the current, stills her cramping legs, and lets herself sink.

When she flicks her tongue across her chewed lips, she can taste the salt from her own post-workout sweat, and it reminds her of the ocean, and she can feel the eyes of the ANA soldiers that patrol alongside the British and American's, so she can't stand here for a moment longer.

She walks, and before she can sink any further, she steps into the small, air-conditioned hut, and for the first time since they'd parted ways at the hospital, she lays eyes on him.

He's sitting at his desk, laptop open but screen off, and in the hard, plastic chair his body is relaxed, head tilted back, his eyes closed; dozing. Though she's seen him shirtless countless times before – whilst working out, heading back from the showers, downtime in his ridiculously small paddling pool – the time it feels different; she notices that his locks look darker, damp, that the fine hairs on his arms look smooth, silky, as if he's not long stepped out of the shower.

As if he can sense her there, can feel her gaze as she rakes over his toned body, dipping to the unfastened button of his camo's, his lids peel back and his eyes find hers.

She doesn't move, and neither does he, and she's not entirely sure she's even breathing.

She just stares, and he stares back.

 _I can't move,_ she thinks. She still feels a little broken, numb, overwhelmed, and she wonders if he can see it; if he can see the death that's following her, shadowing her, will never leave her.

He holds her gaze for a feels like a long time, but then he's pushing away from his desk and getting to his feet.

He holds out a hand for her to take, and he waits.

Her gaze drops to his proffered hand, and she's reminded of the warmth they'd provided as he cradled her in the hospital, of the way her heart had pounded in her chest, of how alive he'd made her feel with a simple, illegitimate touch, and she realises it's something she craves. She swallows, turns and closes the door, flicks the small lock.

She stumbles toward him, and he matches her clumsy step with his confident stride, and then he's reaching out and pulling her into him by her hips.

She just stands there at first, letting the heat of his embrace seep into her, thawing the ice that frosts her insides, and he just stands there, too.

She stares at the stubble that's beginning to darken his jawline as he smooths his hands over her hair, brushing the salty strands away from her face with a strange care, and there's a trail of heat wherever his fingers touch skin.

Suddenly, the Atlantic doesn't seem so deep, and when she lifts her oceanic pupils up to meet his rich orbs, she begins to find the strength to swim.

His hands stop at her neck, fingers stroking at the sensitive skin of her nape, and the electricity that surges from his touch is addictive in a way that makes her whole body crave it.

And she's only mortal, and life's short, and he's looking at her in that way that makes her stomach do the slow flip thing, so with trembling hands, she finds the hem of her shirt, and drags the thin material up her body and over her head.

She drops it at her feet.

This time, she _knows_ she's not breathing.

There's a long, drawn out moment of hesitation on his part, and she can see the fight in his stormy pupils, but just before the chill of doubt can inch it's way up her spine, his eyes darken and his fingers dip into the waistband of her black work-out shorts. He slowly slides the somewhat thin fabric down, over pales thighs and scarred knees, and _God_ , his breathing is quickening and a rush of air hits the sensitive skin of her inner thigh and she gasps a little.

She doesn't have time to regret wearing the most basic, mismatched underwear, (not that regulations allow anything remotely sexy), because as soon as she's free of her shorts, his fingers are working deftly at the clasp of her greying, white bra, and then that, too, is discarded somewhere out of sight.

The ice inside has thawed, but she still can't help but shiver as she traces the edges of the defined muscles of his arms, his chest. His head is bent, low, and she's aware as he moves, as she moves, of his hardening cock against her.

He's breathing very deliberately now; in and out, struggling to slow it down as his eyes rake over her body, and she wonders, as her gaze fixes on his lips, how they've even gotten this far over the line without so much as a kiss.

It's as if he can read her mind, (maybe he can), because he leans forward to brushing his lips against her, softly, and it's like the damn of his will has broken, because then he's just _there;_ his mouth is on hers, devouring her, and his tongue is doing that silky slide thing she's been dreaming of for weeks now, and there's a fire lighting in her veins and she feels _alive_.

She breaks the ocean's surface, and he's right there, throwing her a life-jacket.

His body presses in hers, and they're stumbling back together, until her body thuds against the door of the metal locker, and she uses it's sturdiness for support as she loses herself in him.

She's played this fantasy out in her mind too many times to count, (sometimes it's their first time having sex, sometimes it's not), but despite the varying imaginations, it's never played out like this before; she's always pictured herself to be the one doing all of the touching, that it would be more to do with romance and less to do with survival, imagined his mouth would be on her breasts (because she regularly catches him staring). Instead, though, he kisses her so hard, she's afraid she going to choke, or suffocate, or pass out.

She can feel every inch of him as he melds into her; his knees nudging their way between hers, the curve of his hard member straining against his unfastened trousers, the heat of his defined torso as if covers her nakedness, his fingers tracing over every rib, before settling on her hips.

The sounds of her breaths match his; loud and encompassing.

Her fingers curl into his large shoulders, and though he doesn't look big, he's so, so solid. Four tours of Afghanistan and years of unforgiving training have built his frame up, strengthened him, but she imagines that he's always been strong, and she feels like his body should be covered in scars, even though his skin is silky smooth.

He slips down a little, and it takes her a second to realise he's tugging at his trousers, pushing at them until they slide down his legs (with a little wiggle), and pool at his feet, and she takes the opportunity to shimmy out of her black primark full-fit briefs and kick off her dusty, well worn trainers.

And then his hands curl around the back of her thighs, and he lifts, and she finds herself wedged between cold metal and a hot body with her legs resting around his hips.

He hesitates, then. His pupils smoulder under heavy lids as his gaze holds hers, and she can feel his breath tickle against her skin, leaving goosebumps. She thinks he might behaving second thoughts, as if they haven't already come too far to go back, but then his hand is sliding between them, his shoulder pressing forward just enough to keep her steady, and then she feels the brush of fingers between her legs, and the excitement and anxiety is delicious.

Then there's the brush of his cock, and then she's sliding down over him. On to him.

She tightens her grip on his shoulders and watches as his lids slide closed, lips part.

 _Fuck,_ she thinks. _This is it. This is actually it. This is...him._

She's wet enough, but just the thought of crossing this line with him, having Captain James inside of her, makes her tighten up a bit in panic. There's no pain, but it's snug and slow, and he's patient with her, but she can feel him shaking beneath her, sees the doubt in his eyes, so she forces herself to relax, loosen up.

She rocks gently, and his starts slowly.

She feels confined, and she tries to move with him, but it's awkward and difficult, and it feels _so good_ that she can't help but drop her head on his shoulder and mouth his skin, wanting to sink her teeth in. He can't take long, full strokes, so it's a slow, shallow, thick slide, and _God,_ maybe that's for the best, because she feels like all of the air wants to leave her body, and she can feel him shuddering against her, groaning into the dip of her neck.

It's all so intense, she can't help but think, _this isn't how it's supposed to be._

She knows the sex isn't the problem; it's the past few months of denial and tension, attraction and desperation, rage and jealousy, rules and regulations, friendships and enemies, death and love; it's all unravelling between them like a messy ball of yarn.

She pulls at his back, because she wants him even closer, but it's an impossibility. He presses harder though, and although she's pretty sure it hurts a little, it makes her feels like she's skating on a razor's edge, and it's what she _needs_.

She feels the first warning flutter that she's going to climax, and then it tugs at her again, and again, stronger, and her muscles are tightening and she can't help but sink her teeth into him as she comes; an attempt to muffle her moans.

She loosens her jaw, and her thoughts, and all she feels is heat and pressure and all she can see is red, and all she can do is hold onto him to keep her from falling.

"Fuck, Molly," he breathes against her ear, voice so ragged and rough she can barely hear the familiar baritone within it. "Jesus...I... _fuck!"_

And then he groans, a guttural sound that's being torn out of him, and he shoves down on her hips once more time, and freezes there, with his head resting on her shoulder, his breathing hitching and violent, and all she can do is close her eyes and just feel the way he comes.

 ***OG***

She tries to feel guilty later, when she's naked and warm between the sheets of the single bed, and he's dozing next to her. She stares up at the shadows on the ceiling and listens to the silence of the room, his breathing, and her own inner heartbeat.

She hadn't realised how close they'd been to giving in, that she'd only have to drop her defences for a second, and he'd be right there, waiting, regulations be damned.

She peers up at her sleeping boss, and what's done is done, but the thought of the repercussions for him if they get caught is enough to send fear coursing through her blood. If there's one thing she's certain of, it's that she's not worth losing his whole career over. The thought makes her mouth taste sour and her eyes water, and _oh_ , she thinks, _this can't end well. Not for either of us._

So she closes her eyes, shifts impossibly closer to him and tangles her legs with his, and she doesn't think about it, because in the darkness, with his hands resting on her skin, she feels like she could be Superwoman.

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 **The End.**


End file.
